


write the softest words and kiss them

by acemartinblackwood (semnai)



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Aro-Ace Martin Blackwood, Canon Asexual Character, Demi-Aro Martin Blackwood, Internalized Acephobia, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, ace relationship, i.e. Jon's still ace in this too, post-159
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:42:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23737789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/semnai/pseuds/acemartinblackwood
Summary: Jon had walked into the Lonely and saved him from his own personal hell; he saw Jon, he felt the force of that love. It was all-encompassing, a choking, bright explosion, and after everything, Martin's afraid. He's afraid he's not a worthy recipient of those feelings, he's afraid his own version of-- of-- that emotion won't be enough for Jon. But Jon's Seen him, and he's still here. That-- it has to mean something, even if it's out of misguided pity or obligation.Or: As they both recuperate from escaping the Lonely, Martin shares with Jon his feelings and fears related to love, through an explanation of his relationship with love poetry.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 27
Kudos: 208
Collections: Aspec Martin Blackwood Week





	write the softest words and kiss them

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from a love letter written by John Keats to Fanny Brawne
> 
> Martin Blackwood Aspec Week - Prompt: Poetry
> 
> I see a character and I'm like WHAT IF THEY WERE ACE TOO. Also I really wanted to do some projection on an aspec's relationship with love poetry.
> 
> Thanks to Dathen for reading it over and making sure I didn't mess anything up with rep!!

Pale, pink dusk light filters through the dust-filled air of Martin's neglected-of-late flat. Martin flicks on the hall light, blinking as he adjusts to the sudden flood of light. Routine kicks in and he toes off his shoes. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees that Jon follows his lead, though he makes sure to untie his first before setting them neatly next to Martin's. Martin's mind stalls on the sight of Jon's shoes next to his, though he can hardly process why at the moment. The warm weight of Jon's hand settles on Martin's back. 

"Martin?" Jon murmurs with unconcealed concern, and steps closer; Martin knows the simple utterance of his name is many questions at once: Is everything okay? Are you still here with me? And-- and-- He flinches away from the emotion seeped into every syllable Jon utters; it's just too much, everything feels too much, especially when what he feels might not be enough for Jon. Jon had walked into the Lonely and saved him from his own personal hell; he  _ saw  _ Jon, he felt the force of that love. It was all-encompassing, a choking, bright explosion, and after everything, Martin's afraid. He's afraid he's not a worthy recipient of those feelings, he's afraid his own version of-- of-- that emotion won't be enough for Jon. But Jon's Seen him, and he's still here. That-- it  _ has  _ to mean something, even if it's out of misguided pity or obligation.

Martin takes a quick, deep breath, before nodding in what he hopes is a reassuring manner. "Yeah, yeah. I'm--I'm fine."

Jon appears unconvinced but nods back, his eyes never leaving Martin's face, his hand clenched in Martin's shirt as if he's afraid Martin will disappear in front of him and he'll need to pull him back. Martin simultaneously relishes and shies away from the attention; it's everything he's wanted and at the same time too much for him to handle. He had spent months purposefully withdrawing from his own life, and he's suddenly being properly seen, by the person he cares most about in the world. And although it's overwhelming, he can't help but also be drawn into it, like a moth to the flame. So few people in his life have offered to love him so freely, he can't help it. He tries to bury his dread, at least for now, for what he sees as an inevitable fallout;  _ later _ , he tells himself,  _ later _ .

Martin's flat is small; the short hallway they stand in leads to a combo kitchen and living room, and a door off the left to his room and bathroom.

"Jon? I--" He looks apologetically at Jon, with a quick glance over his shoulder where he can feel Jon's hand. "I need to close the curtains and turn the rest of the lights on."

"Mm? Oh, oh right, sorry, of course." Jon pulls his hand away, to rub at his own neck instead, in a familiar, awkward gesture that unexpectedly brings a smile to Martin's face. 

"Thanks," Martin says softly, before retreating. He makes quick work of it and, out of instinct and a bit of embarrassment, begins to tidy up a bit. Books, used tea mugs, chipped plates with crumbs, haphazard pieces of trash, and random articles of clothing are all strewn about the living room. Martin had hardly been expecting guests; he honestly hadn't expected to still be alive, let alone have Jon in his flat.

"You don't-- Martin, it's fine." 

Martin glances up at Jon, his arms full of clothes. Jon had been not-so-surreptitiously looking around while Martin had started cleaning, and was currently standing by his old, rickety desk.

"Is it?" Martin asks, and he can't stop his voice coming out higher pitched than usual. "It's a mess, Jon, I'll just--"

"Martin--"

"--put these clothes away, and finish tidying up the coffee table and end table--"

"It's fine, Martin.  _ Really _ . You're tired.  _ I'm  _ tired. Please." Jon's voice drops to a pleading tone, and as much as Martin wants to be stubborn, he feels himself giving in. Jon's right--he's tired. And he doesn't want to keep Jon up either.

"Okay,  _ fine _ , but only cause I already cleared the couch. And I'm making tea first no matter what you say. Then we can sleep"

Jon breaks into a fond, albeit weary, smile. "That's-- that sounds nice. Thank you, Martin."

\---

While the tea is seeping, Martin looks up to see Jon holding one of his notebooks, an odd expression on his face. Tilting his head to read the front, Martin squints at the notebook in Jon's hand and immediately has a minor heart attack.

"Jon!" he blurts, starting forward. Jon flushes, nearly throws the notebook back on the desk, and immediately raises his hands, apologetic. 

"I-- S--sorry, I didn't mean, I just-- I saw it and I--I suddenly  _ knew _ \-- I  _ knew _ ," Jon says in a rush, "I didn't mean to  _ know _ , I swear, I just-- it just happened."

Martin snatches the notebook from the desk, holding it so tightly he could feel the edges dig into the palm of his hand.

Biting his lip, Martin looks down at the notebook. It had been a while since he had opened it and read its contents, and even longer since he had written anything in it.

"What do you know?" he asks, heart in his throat.

"I'm  _ so  _ sorry, Martin. All I know is that it's-- it's some of your poetry," Jon says shakily. "I missed it," he adds, softly, like a wish, almost to himself.

Martin meets Jon's eyes, searching for deceit, for some proof that this is a joke, but Jon's earnest and pleading in a way Martin's never seen before. 

"You've missed it?" Martin asks incredulously. "When have you  _ ever-- _ "

"Oh god--" Jon's blush has spread to his ears, and Martin tries to ignore how adorable it looks. "Uh a few years ago, when I thought--" He sighs. "It doesn't matter. I was going through the trash, and found a few of your poems."   


"Of course you did," Martin says with a sigh. "And then you read them."

"Yes," Jon whispers. "But," and his voice grows more loud, more certain, "I-- I liked them Martin. I missed having those little pieces of you around. I--I missed  _ you _ ."

Martin can feel himself turning red now, and jumps on his immediate instinct to change to the subject. 

"Tea's ready! Here," he says, tossing the notebook back down on the desk. "Go sit on the couch and I'll bring it over before it gets cold." 

Jon murmurs his agreement and thanks, but doesn't comment on the change of subject.

\---

Both too stubborn to take the couch, they end up agreeing to share Martin's bed. Too exhausted to change the linens, Martin halfheartedly apologizes for the musty sheets before collapsing into bed. He tries not to think about how this is the first time he's ever shared a bed with anyone, let alone someone who he--he... cares about so much.

\---

The next morning, they decide to continue to hide away in the flat, both unwilling to risk being discovered until they hear from Basira. Martin gets to work after breakfast tidying up the flat with Jon's help. 

"When did you start writing poetry?" Jon asks nonchalantly, no compulsion in his voice, as he folds freshly laundered bedding. Jon had insisted; apparently among Jon's many talents was folding a fitted-sheet perfectly.

Martin nearly drops his washcloth, and glances over at Jon, eyebrows raised. "Where's this coming from, then?"

Jon bites his lip, and gives a little shrug. "I--I don't know everything, Martin. Not the things I want to know."

Martin shakes his head. "Why would you  _ want  _ to know about  _ this _ ?" Martin asks, unable to keep the self-deprecation out of his voice.

"Martin," Jon says, in that  _ damned voice,  _ soft and laced with pure emotion. He had no idea Jon could even sound like that until a few months ago. Jon sets down the sheet he had been folding, and walks over to him, arms outstretched. Martin almost flinches away, but when Jon hesitates before him, clearly waiting for an okay, Martin sighs and gives a little nod. Jon wraps his arms around Martin, and runs his hand up and down Martin's back soothingly. "Martin," he says again, just a whisper, before pulling back, his hands falling to Martin's waist. "Is this okay?" Jon's warmth is a comfort, an anchor. 

"Yes, yes. But, you still haven't answered my question."

Jon's hand, so assured, moves to his face, cupping his jaw, cradling his head. Martin squeezes his eyes shut at the casual show of affection. 

"Because it's important to you, Martin. I--I love you." Martin's heart jolts, and his throat feels full of cotton, and he swallows, jaw clenched, refusing to cry. "And because of that I want to--to know everything about you."

After several long moments, when he's sure he won't start crying, Martin finally responds, glancing at Jon before quickly looking away. "Okay," he says, more raspy than he would like, "Okay. I, uh." Martin winces. "Jon, I, I care about you a lot too, I-- fuck."

He pulls away from Jon, his hands clutching the back of the sofa. Jon lets go of him, apparently reluctantly, and steps back, concern etched across his face.    
  
"Martin, its fine, you don't have to--"

"I-- It's complicated, Jon," Martin interjects. "I do... love you? I just," Martin runs a hand across his face, exhaling slowly. "Let me answer your original question. It will explain things better."

Jon nods, no less concerned, but waits, watching Martin intently. Martin's used to that though, it's almost comforting, the normality of it.

"When I was 9 or 10, I guess? Used to write instead of listening to the teachers. Kept at it even though I was never able to take any formal classes, but learned by trying to emulate poets I admired: Dickinson, Blake, Frost, Whitman, Keats."    


"That's admirable."

Martin squints at him, unable to help being wary for a sign of any mocking. Jon looks stricken. "Martin, I'm serious I promise. You didn't-- You didn't have the opportunities that others had, but you still-- You did it anyway."

"I have a harder time reading modern poets. It's hard-- it's hard for me to sort out the good from the bad. And there's," Martin winces, "some stuff I'd rather not read."

Jon's interest is clearly piqued. "Like what? If you don't mind sharing."

Martin gives him a pained look, a feeling of dread in his gut. "Love poetry-- don't laugh-- It's just-- I hate the tone of it, and then there's all those break-up poems and heartbreak and I just… I don't get it. It's not for me," he finishes, a touch too defiant. 

Jon tilts his head slightly, questioning and bemused.

Under his scrutiny, Martin folds inward. He grasps his hands together, his head bowed. "I don't-- I usually don't feel that way. And I didn't like to read what I'm missing," he says in a small voice. Jon says nothing, but his hand twitches, like he wants to reach out. Martin takes a deep breath, and continues.

"Jon, I don't usually get crushes-- I, uh, actually never had one before you, and all this time I wasn't even sure that it was an actual," Martin couldn't help how his voice curled with aversion, " _ crush _ . All I knew is that I wanted to see you happy, I wanted to help you, protect you, I-- that I would do anything for you. I care, I care so, so much, I may even love you. I just-- I don't know what that is, and I don't want to promise anything that might-- that might go away. And, Jon, I'm  _ terrified _ ."

"Martin," Jon says, voice raw and aching, and it's too much, Martin's terrified of what Jon will say. Jon will leave him, walk away, and, if he's being honest with himself, it's probably for the best. 

Jon reaches forward, gently covering one of Martin's hands with two of his. "I get it--or at least I think I do--this… _stuff_ ," Jon says, echoing Martin's tone of aversion _,_ "is complicated, ephemeral. I have similar struggles with trying to define how I feel when it comes to relationships, love, though I do not wish to claim it's exactly similar to your experiences."

"If you still want a relationship, if you want to try this, being  _ together _ , I want that too. Any version of us would make me so happy. But if you--if you aren't comfortable with it, if it's too much, that's--that's fine. A world with you in it is enough for me."

Martin bites his lip, considering what Jon's said, wisps of bitter skepticism clouding his thoughts, even as tears burn at the corners of his eyes. But Jon's hands are warm around his. Jon's hands don't cling at him, but simply rest there, a steady, solid weight. Something  _ real _ , offered freely, with no strings attached, no expectations. And he knows what Jon's said, what Jon's offered contains no lie. The tears bud like flowers, and fall down his face.

"Okay," Martin whispers, "Okay."

Jon leans forward, enfolding Martin in his arms, and Martin rests his head on Jon's shoulder, taking a deep breath to calm his racing heart.

After several long moments, Martin gives a damp laugh. "Don't expect me to write you any love poems though."

Jon inhales, clearly ready to disavow any need for love poems, but Martin pulls back slightly before he can, so that he's looking into Jon's eyes. "I actually tried, you know. When I realized how--how strongly I felt about you. I got excited, that I might be able to write a love poem, but--hm. It felt, hm… wrong, I guess? But," he adds quickly, "it's nothing personal, I just. Like I said, don't like 'em."

"That's fine, Martin. I would be honored to hear any of your poetry, though."

Martin rolls his eyes, a small smile peaking through, like the sun on a cloudy day. "Persistent, aren't you. How about later today?"

"I'd like that," Jon says, and Martin could lose himself in the quiet, joyful mood Jon radiates. "Thank you, Martin," Jon says, like he isn't giving Martin everything, like he isn't the most wonderful man Martin's ever met, like he isn't accepting everything Martin is and continues to love him.

Martin leans towards Jon, scrutinizing his face, trying to memorize all the little details from his many scars that pepper his cheeks, to the small mole on his jaw, to the rich brown-gold of his eyes. Jon gazes back, his expression reverent. With some apprehension, Martin presses a kiss to Jon's forehead, a mere brush of lips. 

"Is this okay?" he asks, biting his lip as he pulls back. 

Jon gives a little laugh, warm and breathy, and nods. "It's--it's good, Martin." And despite Jon glancing down at where Martin's biting his lip, Jon doesn't surge forward to claim a kiss, but continues to let Martin lead. Martin considers Jon's nose; it's always cute when Jon scrunches it. Martin presses a kiss to the tip of his nose, and drinks in the nearly dopey smile on Jon's face when he pulls back again.  _ He did that. _

"Would it--would it be okay if we finished up the… the," Martin attempts, waving a hand vaguely towards the pile of unfolded laundry. His own washcloth was somewhere behind him.

"Of course, Martin." Unexpectedly, Jon doesn't look put-out by this, but appears happy to return to his folding. "If you don't mind though, I'd like to--to talk more about this later? There's some stuff about me I want to share as well."

"Oh! Yeah, oh god, sorry, I--"

"Martin!" Jon says sharply, but not unkindly. "Martin, don't apologize, there's nothing to be sorry about. I just think--" Jon exhales. "This heavy stuff needs to be in small doses, there's only so much we can handle at a time."

"That--that makes sense. But whenever you want to talk about it, I'm here."

"Yes," Jon says, with a warm, gentle smile. "You're here."

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!! Kudos and comments are love <3\. You can find me on my [Tumblr](https://acemartinblackwood.tumblr.com/), if you want to chat more about JonMartin or ace stuff!


End file.
